


Professor Barratt

by blackmountainbones, BobSkeleton



Series: Professor Barratt [1]
Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: Blowjobs, Dark Academia, F/M, Going to hell on a full scholarship, Other, POV Second Person, RPF, RPF AU, Reader-Insert, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, apologies to Bram Stoker, get your all-inclusive self-insert porn here, implied threesome maybe?, narrator of ambiguous gender, porn with a side of academia aesthetics, shoddy research papers, voyeur Noel makes a surprise appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24954391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: You’ve heard rumors about the devilishly handsome Professor Barratt from the English department giving extra credit… Time to see if they’re true.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding, Julian Barratt/Reader
Series: Professor Barratt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160714
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	Professor Barratt

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously a work of fiction and as such, St. Helena’s is an amalgamation of US, UK, and completely fantastical (I’m not saying "sexy Hogwarts," but…) universities. Please forgive any glaring anachronisms. 
> 
> Big thanks to our beta, [A_Little_Boosh_Maid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Boosh_Maid) for reading this over and assisting! And also thanks to all our pals in the Sin Bin on the Discord--wouldn't have made this a thing without you all!

As soon as Professor Lawrence dismisses your class, Marissa turns to you, grinning as she asks, “Are you coming to Lane’s tonight?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head and stuffing your notebook into your leather satchel. “I have to go see Professor Barratt about my paper,” you answer. 

Marissa’s eyes widen. “About… _your paper_?” she asks, emphasizing the words dirtily. 

“ _Yes,_ ” you answer, rolling your eyes as you follow her down the long stone corridor. Outside, the sky has begun to darken--the autumn is quickly fading into winter, and the days grow shorter and shorter. “I need to ask him about my _Dracula_ paper, the theory about Lucy Westenra I told you about.” 

“Mmm,” replied Marissa noncommittally. “And you’re sure this has nothing to do with the rumours about Professor Barratt?”

“How dare you?” you ask, feigning shock. You hope your face doesn’t give you away, that your eyes don’t look guilty and your cheeks aren’t flushed. “I need to ask him about my theory, and a few of the resources I found at the library. That’s _it._ ” 

“Okay, okay,” answers Marissa. “Well, look. I’m gonna get going. I’m meeting Adam before we head to Lane’s. Catch us up later if you want, okay?” She leans in and gives you a friendly kiss on the cheek. 

“Will do,” you answer, grinning and waving her off. “Bye!” 

“Bye!” Marissa’s clipped steps echo down the hallway. 

You stand and watch the students wander into their next class, or out to The Commons. Professors close their doors as their next classes start, and Chapins Hall eventually silences, leaving you alone with the lengthening shadows on the ancient stone floors. Your breath is preternaturally loud in your ears, your stomach twisting in anticipation. 

You lied. You aren’t seeing Professor Barratt about your paper. Your theory about Lucy Westenra is watertight. Marissa was right--you’re here because of the rumors. 

It’s your final semester at St. Helena’s University, you’ve found success, and a second home, there. You remember the joy you felt when you opened your thick acceptance letter. From that moment on, it’s been a fantastic experience. It’s an old school, and the housing is old and drafty--the entire campus is old and drafty--but you’ve made good friends, some that you’re sure will last a lifetime. 

Others, like Marissa, are good friends, and even better roommates. But your lifelong friends will be The Scriveners. 

Like every old school, St. Helena’s has clubs, some older than your grandparents, and you, by way of taking a degree in English & Literature, found yourself put in the way of St. Helena’s literary society. The Scriveners is a club, a society, a social group, made up of the brightest minds and sharpest wits at St. Helena’s. At first, you thought you’d been invited by accident. Surely, these older students who had all been published and rubbed elbows with best-selling poets and authors didn’t want _you._

But they did. 

You had a gift, and The Scriveners helped you hone it. You’d published, under a pseudonym, quite a few scholarly articles, and were even shopping around your first collection of short stories to printing houses. 

It was from The Scriveners that you learned about Professor Barratt, the Chair of the English department. 

You had Professor Barratt in your third year for Shakespeare & Political Theory. Like many of the students, you were arrested by his mellifluous voice, the way he spoke with his long, elegant hands, the way he has memorized entire passages of The Bard and recited them with such passion and eloquence… you only noticed his wild hair and tall stature were attractive to after half a semester in his classroom, but by then, your infatuation was complete. And your frustration reached a fever pitch, too. 

You complained bitterly about him one night at a meeting of The Scriveners at your local pub. A few drinks in, you’d started going on about how pretentious he was, and how he’d dared to give you a less than perfect grade on your last paper when you _know_ that the point you argued about Othello and colonialism was not only correct, but _flawless,_ when Perry, one of the oldest members of the club, told you _the secret._

“Professor Barratt will give you extra credit if you see him during office hours,” Perry said, swallowing his beer. 

“I don’t _need_ extra credit,” you whined. “I need him to see that I’m right.” 

“I mean,” said Perry, leaning closer, “ _extra. Credit.”_

Your eyes widened. “You mean… like. Sexually?”

Perry just raised his eyebrows and went back to his drink. You tucked away that piece of information, and asked about it slyly, usually when the other Scriveners were a bit tipsy. What they told you was true--Professor Barratt had a proclivity for dalliances with his students. He had standards, of course: they had to be students he taught, students he somewhat respected, and students who were less than a year away from graduating. 

One of the girls in the group had even told you, through a curtain of giggles, that he and the Art Lecturer, Professor Fielding, made it a game between them to collect the most student trysts each semester. 

The idea had nauseated you--grown men in positions of power wielding their influence like that. But then, as you watched Professor Barratt, his rumpled tweed suit ill-fitting yet so very becoming, that it wasn’t as though they ever blatantly pursued students. Students had to be informed, via secret, deep channels about this option for “extra credit.” 

In class yesterday, Professor Barratt had handed back papers. Your fingers brushed against his, and a buzz of ecstasy passing between his skin and yours. The sensation lasted only a moment, but Professor Barratt licked his lips, cleared his throat, and murmured, “Well done,” in that velvety voice, and your mind was made up. 

Do you need the credit? No. But do you want Professor Barratt?

Absolutely. Yes. 

Your boots click on the flagstone floors, echoing as you walk up the stairs to Professor Barratt’s office. You know where it is, have walked by more often than necessary ever since Perry planted the idea in your head nearly two years ago now. 

In truth, you’re thinking of staying on at St. Helena’s for graduate school, becoming an adjunct yourself. It only stands to reason that you’d work in the English department, burgeoning author that you are. And besides, the Gothic Literature position was always empty, and that _is_ your specialty. 

Your body tingles with nerves as you draw closer and closer to his door. 

You might not need the extra credit for class, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt your future prospects to have Professor Barratt on your side. 

At last, you reach the heavy wooden door. A placard on the front reads, “Professor Barratt: Office Hours 4-6 PM.” You check your watch-- five til 6. 

The Scriveners had told you to show up at the last five minutes, and wait until after 6 if he had another student. That’s how he’d know what you were there for. 

You feel your palms begin to sweat, and swallow the dryness in your mouth. It’s now or never. 

You rap on the door, three sharp knocks. Your breath stalls in your lungs. 

“Enter,” you hear Professor Barratt say in that velvety voice. You take a deep breath, push open the door and enter the office. 

It is a dark room, lit by candles and the fireplace on one wall. The walls are paneled in dark wood and lined with bookshelves. The desk, large, dark, antique, but sturdy, is covered with papers and fountain pens and books opened to yellowing pages. It looks like chaos, and the Lord of Disorder is sat behind the desk. He looks up as you enter. 

“Ah, welcome,” he says, gesturing to one of the squashy, ancient leather chairs in front of his desk. “I wondered if I’d be seeing you.” 

“Yes, sir,” you answer, hating the little quaver in your voice. You sit, willing your foot not to bounce nervously. 

“What can I do for you?” he asks with that maddening smirk. He rarely smiles--though he is prone to little quirks of the lip, half-smiles, and loaded glances. 

You clear your throat and reach into your satchel, grateful for something to do with your hands. “I, erm,” you say. “I wanted to speak with you about my _Dracula_ paper, sir.” You pull the paper from your bag and place it on the desk, hoping he does not notice the waver in your hands.

Professor Barratt’s small, dark eyes burn into yours. They flash with something desirous , and you get the feeling he knows _exactly_ why you are here. “Ah, yes,” he says, taking the paper from you, “Bram Stoker’s masterpiece.” 

The next few moments are laden with tension as Professor Barratt skims your paper, brow furrowing as he reads. Your stomach knots with anxiety, and something darker, something heady with want. 

“So, you surmise that Miss Lucy Westenra is not as pure as she may seem,” he says, his voice low and melodic. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer. 

“Hmm,” he replies, reading further. “Remind me again of your argument?”

You clear your throat. “Lucy receives blood transfusions from not only her fiance, but every man except Jonathan Harker, who was married and not in England at the time,” you explain. “Van Helsing himself says, ‘No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.’ Couple that with the sexual undertones of the transfusions…” You trail off. You had gotten so carried away with your argument that you realize you’ve now veered into uncomfortable territory. 

“Go on. You were saying about Lucy’s sexuality…” 

“Yes,” you say. “The men are described as spent after giving blood, weak and worn out, while Lucy’s cheeks are flushed with life.” You fidget in your seat, not able to meet his eyes. “The connotations, especially during that time period, are clearly… sexual… in nature.” 

Professor Barratt stalks dangerously around his desk, drawing closer to you. “And what sources do you have to back up your claim?”

“In particular, a paper by one Doctor Hollis,” you answer, reaching for the paper. Your hands brush his again--those beautifully veined, long-fingered hands, and you imagine for a moment, how they would feel pressed against your thighs and your throat, and you forget what you were saying, or why you were grabbing for your paper. 

Professor Barratt’s eyes meet yours. They burn with a challenge to match your own. 

“Doctor Hollis’s work is not generally seen to be reliable,” rumbles Professor Barratt. “Do you need a refresher course in finding credible sources?” His eyes glint sinfully as he asks this. 

You gulp. _This is it._

“Yes, sir,” you answer, licking your lips just so there is no uncertainty about what it is you are asking for. 

Professor Barratt nods, then rises and crosses the room to his door, which he locks. 

All the heat in your body drains right to your middle as he turns back and stalks across the room. He takes off his tweed jacket with the elbow patches and drapes it casually on the back of his wingback chair. You squirm in your chair, your breaths coming shallow now as you can see his broad, strong shoulders through the white fabric of his shirt. 

“Finding reliable sources is the hallmark of academia,” rumbles Professor Barratt as he unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves. “Without credible sources, there is no credible work. And _you_ will not be taken seriously as a scholar.” 

You sit, pressing your legs together, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure building between them. You want this so, _so_ badly, can’t even count the number of times you have touched yourself imagining this _exact_ scenario. 

“I’ve heard that you hope to stay on, pursue further studies,” Professor Barratt says, almost conversationally. “Is this true?”

“Yes, sir,” you manage to say. 

He stalks around his desk, rolling up his sleeves as he positions himself in front of you. “If you wish to be seen as a serious, reliable scholar, then you had better learn to find serious, reliable sources for your research.” 

You look down at your lap, your cheeks filling with blood. You feel ashamed, even though you haven’t done anything wrong. Something in his tone fills you with shame, yet something in the dressing down you are receiving from him burns you from the inside. Your belly clenches with want, and you clench your legs tighter, losing the battle with your own arousal. Professor Barratt’s eyes slide down your body, resting on your lap. _He knows._

He makes a show of sniffing the air, his wide nostrils flaring as he inhales the scent of your desire. You cross your legs, but really, you’re rubbing your thighs together, teasing yourself.

“Since you seem to know so much about the sexual arts,” he says, his voice rough with want, “I suggest we test your own knowledge, to prove your credibility.” 

“Yes, sir,” you say, your skin flushing with desire. 

“Stand up,” he orders. You rise, compelled by _that voice_ to obey. You barely reach his shoulder--he towers over you, bigger even than you’d expected. He takes your seat and leaves you standing before him awkwardly. 

He reaches a hand out towards you, and you hesitantly raise your hand, placing your smaller one in his own. He clasps it, gently at first, then with a skill obviously much-practiced, he maneuvers you so you are laid across his lap, his hand stroking your backside. Overwhelmed by the sensation of his hands finally, _finally_ on you, a breathy moan escapes from between your lips. 

Professor Barratt’s lap is wide and comfortable. The coarse material of his tweed trousers rubs your nipples through your thin uniform shirt.

He swats the crease where your ass meets your thighs. The force of it forces you forward, dragging your nipples across his tweed trousers. He slaps you again, and they start to feel raw.

You cry out, the sound dragged from a place inside that you hitherto had no idea existed. “Silence,” he commands from above you, smacking you again. You bite your lip so hard you draw blood in your effort to remain quiet. 

“Lucy Westenra’s pure status is remarked upon time and time again over the course of Stoker’s novel,” Professor Barratt says.

You can tell that Professor Barratt is hard. His erection is hot beneath your belly; you drag against it naughtily every time you rock with one of his slaps. 

“And you dare,” he slaps you, “to contest the word of the author for the sake of your own,” he slaps again, “perverse theories?” His breath is coming more ragged now, and you buck into his lap, purposely seeking out his hard cock beneath you as you wriggle. 

Professor Barratt pushes you from his lap unceremoniously. He spreads his legs, grinning widely, wolfishly. Undoes his belt, his fly.

You rock back on your heels. You know what he wants. He reaches into his flies, takes out his cock. It’s red and stiff and fat, and you lick your lips, scooting forward on your knees.

He pumps himself lazily, watching you from where he sits. 

“I think she was a slut,” you say confidently, dragging your eyes from his red cock to meet his hungry eyes. “I think she fucked every one of those men, and cucked poor Arthur.” You crawl closer to Professor Barratt until his cockhead is right in front of your mouth. You lick your lips hungrily. 

“That,” says Professor Barratt, his voice nearly a growl, “is a very, _very_ naughty contention.” He taps his cock against your lips, the feel of it hot and solid against your sensitive mouth. “And you will address me as _sir_ or I shan’t help you any further, are we clear?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” you say, managing to lower your eyes in humility. 

“Show me what you know about being a slut,” he growls, grabbing your head and thrusting into your mouth. 

The movement is so unexpected that you moan around his length, which is nowhere near close to fitting into your mouth. You open wider, your jaw aching as you try to take as much of him as you can, the weight of him hot against your tongue. 

Those long, articulate fingers curl in your hair, tugging enough to send currents of lust from your scalp to your toes. His breathing grows more shallow, and you have never felt more proud--not of making the Dean’s List or of your acceptance into St. Helena’s or of anything else--than you do when he _whimpers_ in delight. 

You reach between your legs and touch yourself as you suck. 

Professor Barratt stops you. “Let me see you get yourself off,” he says. 

The hand between your legs moves more quickly. 

“Lick your hand. Get it wet.”

You do, tasting the musk of your own skin on your fingers. You lick and suck until your hand is glistening with saliva. Professor Barratt nods. “That’s enough. Touch yourself.”

You obey. The saliva makes everything wet and smooth, and you work yourself quick and hard. Professor Barratt is holding his cock by the base, teasing it gently as he watches you work yourself into a frenzy.

“Do you stand by your contention?” he asks breathily. 

“Yes,” you moan, stroking yourself to the breaking point. “I… oh god, I do. I contend.” 

“Sir,” he says, biting his own lip. The expression drives you wild. 

“Yes, _god,_ yes sir!” 

It doesn’t take long before your body goes taut, and you come, collapsing onto one of Professor Barratt’s thighs to hold yourself upright. He grips you by the hair, nudging his cock against your lips, and you open your mouth, sucking him in.

You don’t bother teasing--he’s close, you can feel his cock, thicker than ever, pulling at the corners of your lips as you slide your mouth up and down on his dick. You swirl your tongue around the head, working the base with your fist. His balls are taut and slap against his thigh as you stroke. 

Just as Professor Barratt is about to come, you hear a key slide into the locked door. You freeze, terror chasing the sex-fueled haze from your brain. You could get expelled, Professor Barratt could get terminated… 

And yet he doesn’t seem concerned at all. 

“Keep going,” he pants, forcing your head to keep working his cock. 

You can’t see who has entered the room, but you hear the door close and lock behind whoever it is. A pair of heeled boots click across the floor. They’re silver, familiar--

“Don’t stop on account of me,” a voice says, and you recognize it immediately: Professor Fielding from the art department.

Professor Barratt’s hand grips you by the nape of your neck. You bury your face in his lap, taking his cock deep. It swells in your mouth and you pull back, just enough to look up through your lashes and see Professor Barratt meet Mr. Fielding’s eyes, and the next thing you know, he’s coming, spilling his hot and bitter seed down your throat. 

You suck him off as he finishes, swallowing like the good student you are. You rock back on your heels to look up at Professor Barratt, and feel hands on the back of your head, stroking. 

“That was pretty good,” you hear Professor Fielding say as he plays idly with your hair. “You’re a pleasure to watch with a mouthful of cock. Did you enjoy sucking Sir off?”

You nod. Your mind is racing too fast to form words; instead, you crane your neck to meet Professor Fielding’s gaze. He smiles at you with those impish blue eyes, and when you look back to Professor Barratt, he’s eying the pair of you hungrily, spent and panting though he is. He looks wrecked, his cheeks flushed and his hair disheveled from running his beautiful fingers through it while you sucked him. _I did that,_ you think proudly to yourself. 

Professor Fielding offers his hand and helps you rise. You do your best to straighten your uniform and look as presentable as you can, even though the taste of Professor Barratt’s spunk still lingers in your mouth and your knees ache from kneeling on the stone floor. 

Professor Fielding leans against the desk, his eyes going from you to Professor Barratt. “You know,” he says, his lilting South London accent taking on a devilish edge, “the basis for any good education in the Humanities is an understanding of literature _and_ art _._ ” 

“Yes, sir,” you answer, breathless. Is he insinuating what you _think_ he’s insinuating?

“You’re damnably good at proving a point,” says Professor Barratt nodding towards you. “Your argument is sound, as you’ve proven. And if you accept Professor Fielding’s _generous_ offer of further tutelage, there is no reason you wouldn’t make a fine addition to the faculty of St. Helena’s. Don’t you agree, Noel?” 

“Oh, yes,” says Professor Fielding, grinning sinfully as he musses his own hair. 

You grin at Professor Barratt, who winks at you, then look back at Professor Fielding, who gives you a kind smile delicately layered with mischief. 

_That,_ you think, is an offer too good to possibly refuse. Any scholar would know that. 

  
  



End file.
